


Ward

by ginger_rude



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internal Monologue, Meta, Meta As Shit, Post-Finale, s01e01 Unauthorized Magic, s01e02 The Source of Magic, s01e03 Consequences of Advanced Spellcasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:12:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_rude/pseuds/ginger_rude
Summary: It was never about Taylor Swift.





	1. Chapter 1

This place. This fucking place, man.

First of all, he has no idea how almost everyone here managed to even make it this far, because one look is all you need to know these people are literally too fucking dumb to live. And, yes, that goes for most of the dumbasses in so-called charge. Double.

Take that “final exam.” They asked him to try and read their minds, so, okay. He doesn’t expect much, but at least, you’d think people teaching this shit know how to shield. He doesn’t just get “you, the number you’re thinking is 67; you, you’re thinking about a blue sheep in a red field for some reason.” No, nearly half of them, without even trying, he gets practically all the way down to their earliest memories before he hits a wall. That Lipson, she nearly shit herself when he told her she should really hide her stash better or else she’s gonna come home one day and find her cat either super wrecked or super dead, which, after that time with the neighbor’s kid, she should be more careful by now.

He was sure he was out of there after that. Instead, welcome aboard, sign on the dotted fucking line. He’s here to get the voices to shut the hell up. How are these people supposed to help him if they can’t even help themselves?

But, okay. Without an obvious better option. Sign me up. Great. They put him in a room with some sad-ass arrested development nerdboy. He hasn’t had to share a room since he left the last home back when he was fifteen. Naturally, the very first thing this cornfed _chutiya_ does is accuse him of stealing. Good thing he’s learned to anticipate this shit. Surprise, asshole, I _did_ take your stupid piece of kid crap—by accident— but even if I didn’t, you’d be whining I stole your Gameboy soon as you misplaced it, so fuck it. 

He has to give it to his new roomie, though: he might just have _the_ single least protected mind he’s ever run into. The hell does that happen? One of his foster parents liked to say God protects drunks, children and idiots; roomie’s two out of three, so, there’s that. (Good old Betty took care of the drunk part just fine, herself). Whatever. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t _want_ to know. That’s the point: he does. not. want. to know _any_ body’s shit, least of all, this pathetic—fuck, man, he’s known actual five year olds who know how to protect themselves better than this. Know why? They _had_ to. Just like he had to learn to protect his mind from all the incoming, best he could. On his own. 

He _has_ wards. Problem is, he can only block so much. He can ignore most of the meaningless babble in peoples’ heads, even the Valley Girl-voice geek nonsense in his roommate’s stupid floppy-haired head. (“Quentin Coldwater,” is there a pastier name in the goddamn world?) The problem _is_ , he can’t ignore the _emotions_ , and _Quentin_ is like a megaphone broadcasting allll his feelings, 24/7. And not a single one of those—usually misery, terror, shame, guilt, or some fucked up mix—does Penny want to feel right along with him. Sometimes, words he can't block out come through too: _freak. useless. stupid. loser. foreveralone._ Shit he does not need or want in his head.

Too fucking bad. Sucks to be both of them.

When the Voice comes to him—cool, calm, British, almost as familiar as his hands—he’s barely surprised it leads him to idiot boy again. One way or another, after all that crying, he was going to have to try to help. Least this is something he can actually do. Maybe it’ll get him to shut up for a minute, and he can finally get some damn sleep.

Kady, now, she’s a surprise. She keeps surprising him. Fine as hell, but also, she’s about the only one in this place who gets it. Although the girl, Alice, she’s got something, too. Not that he particularly wants to fuck her—not that he’d mind, either, but the point is: he recognizes a fellow survivor. One or two of the very few who know how the world is, how you can’t rely on anyone but yourself. Knows when you can try to do something—very rarely—and when to pull the ripcord. Walk away.

So here they are, the four of them doing some dumbass spell for some reason. Nothing happens, which is fine with him. Of course he doesn’t get to sleep that night either, although at least he gets some pizza and a very nice couple of hours with Kady before it’s time to get bored as hell in a school room again. 

And then—

…

He should have known. You can’t trust anyone or anything. Why the fuck did he trust a disembodied British voice in his head? He’s as much of a dumbass as anyone here. Worse. 

He’s past ready to pull the cord, but Kady convinces him not to. He barely understands why. Mainly not to go back out there knowing that Voice can still come to him, he guesses. And Kady—okay. Okay.

And also: an opportunity. Why not do both of them a favor. Quentin’s so unhappy, he should go somewhere he can get some help, because he ain’t the one. Ward of the fucking state, you don't get to cry for mommy; you can't be anyone else's damn daddy. ...Or brother. No. Enough.

Incredibly, the little shit tries to fight him over it. It’s like getting your ankle bit by some little lapdog. It’s hilarious. Everything is hilarious when you think about it. Especially when Quentin _actually throws some battle magic at him_ —does he think he’s Kady all of a sudden?—and _instant_ blowback. Maybe worth staying just for that. 

Even better, little while after that, Quentin moves the hell out of his room. Thank God. 

Turns out, though, Penny still gets the broadcast when he’s within walking distance of Quentin. He wasn’t on guard, so now he’s also getting whatever inane garbage is on autoplay—Taylor _Swift_? Oh hell naw. Enough. He goes over to Quentin, and very calmly explains how things are going to be from now on. Quentin indicates that he comprehends. Maybe now he’ll have some peace. Get some room, _alone_ , except for Kady. Life could be sweet.

…but it’s not. Now _he_ has to move. Hell is real, and it smells like unwashed psychics and patchouli. And more crying.

And then: suddenly, he’s in fucking China. 

Because he wasn’t enough of a freak already, and he didn’t have enough shit on his plate. Now, not only does he never get any peace and quiet, he has the Dean telling him some Stand and Deliver bullshit about how he needs to learn how to manage his shit or he’ll disappear into a volcano. 

And Sunderland, who he’d otherwise think about whether she might sit on his face, because she’s definitely up for it, now Sunderland tells him he’s not entirely human.

Perfect.

He _hates_ this place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Penny side-eyes the Powers That Be.
> 
> This part is post-finale, canon compliant, and not a fix-it. It's mostly about Penny, but: fair warning. 
> 
> If you'd rather read something Q/E centered in which the stupid finale never happens, you're welcome to check out my WIP instead, ['For Want of a Nail'](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1382302)

This place is alright. Has been, to him. Mostly. Except…

He shakes his head. Goes behind his desk, retrieves the crystal decanter. Fills a glass to the quarter mark with dark amber. Sits and swirls.

Days like this, man. 

Poor kid. Yeah, _kid_ : that’s what he was, at the end of the day—twenty-five years old, eighty years old, doesn’t matter. He gave him hot chocolate instead of this shit for a reason. You don’t give brandy to the scared little boy who got lost in the mall and just wants to go home. 

True, everyone gets reduced to a mess of blubbering tears and snot in this room, and didn’t they just pick the perfect employee for this job. He lifts his glass in a toast: here’s to the Ladies Upstairs, and their fine, fine appreciation of irony. Knocks the drink back. Grimaces. Pours out another finger. One more. To himself. To Penny Adiyodi, therapist to the dead. 

Quentin, though. He’d seen it coming, obviously. Read the script months ago. Long before he knew his own role, of course. That was a real fun twist. Like sending some medieval white dude to pretend he needs Penny to instruct him on quasi-postmodern literary wokeness, then give him his marching orders. Hilarious. See, the white dude is actually your boss, and you thought you were smart and in control, but now you look like a hoop-jumping jackass. It’s ironic. Get it? 

Even funnier? Have him be the one to answer questions like “was I a hero or did I kill myself.” What, you think I can read minds? Surprise! Not anymore. Not down here. 

Just like he always wanted. 

He can still _read_ , though. He’s been keeping up. Peoples’ books usually read kind of dry: omniscient POV, not much in the way of internal monologue, so you don’t get straight up told a lot about character motivation. But you read lines like “break my bones, strangle me, too tired to care anymore,” and actions like, almost sticks his arm up an arcade game full of blades: Really didn’t need the intensive course on subtext to make a critical interpretation there. Thanks, though. Been real educational. 

Most of all. If you have to ask…

But what can you say? “I don’t know, man, looks like kind of both. Sorry.” Fuck it. He’s not the one. Nothing in the handbook says he has to tell the truth. Nothing in the handbook, period, in fact. “Secrets Taken to the Grave.” Want more of a job description than that? Well, you don’t get one. It’s a SECRET. Get it?? Ahahaha!

So he smiles, and puts an arm around Quentin’s shoulders, and takes him back up to see his friends— _their_ friends, okay, if we’re being honest here: this is just as much for himself, he doesn’t get many excuses to get a direct look at the world above. Still hurts to see Kady. Shouldn’t, but it does. 

It all hurts. 

Seriously. What do you say? “Yeah, you’re a hero, I guess; but, don’t know if you noticed, a major theme here is ‘heroic sacrifices are for dumbasses.’ Look at me.” Maybe he should have. Real talk. Oh yeah, that was another twist he didn’t see coming, til he caught up with Kady’s book just yesterday. Just in case you didn’t already feel like enough of a dumbass for signing a _billion year contract_ of indentured servitude. Just in case you forgot that you bartered away said billion years for essentially nothing: a recipe for a god killing bullet that never actually killed any gods, or did any good whatsoever. Between that and him dying of super cancer right away, Kady did not appreciate his heroic sacrifice, for some reason. If the person you make sacrifices for doesn’t want you to do it, and doesn’t get any benefit from it, the point of the sacrifice was…? (And, oh yeah, they originally promised him he could get magic back. Right before he died, he was teaching himself ass kegels, because they never helped him fix his hands. Best internship ever). Now, turns out, they could’ve cured him from the Poison Room all along. They just didn’t. 

So, that. 

But he doesn’t say any of that to Quentin. He says—God, what did he say? He was improvising. Something how it couldn’t have been suicide, because look how much everyone loves him and misses him, and he’d never have left that behind? Yeah. Totally how that works. If there’s anyone you can count on having a clear eyed view of who cares about them and whether it’s worth riding out the pain, it’s suicidally depressed people. Again, though: after the fact. Why salt the wound? It seemed to work, anyway. At least, it didn’t seem to make things worse, and maybe that’s the best you can hope for. 

He pours himself another drink: why not. Not like you can get too drunk down here. Perk or drawback, depending on how you look at it. Still a nice glow. He sips meditatively.

Just doing his job the best he can, that’s all. But—okay. Question. Questions. He gets why he’d be the one sent to meet Quentin; if you wanted to be generous, you could imagine that somone Upstairs had a little compassion and wanted to ease someone’s pain, make the transition gentler. If you’ve got a friend in low places, take advantage, right? 

He had a _lot_ of instructions, though: weird for a job where usually there’s nothing except “meet so and so now for their life review.” Like: make _sure_ this goes down the way it says in Quentin’s book. Sure, from his still pretty damn human-identified perspective: a new tyrannical god on earth seemed like a real bad idea. So, he was on board about that part, don’t get him wrong. But, was that really the only way it could have worked? Really? Is this some “fate” shit, after all? But if it is, then why be concerned that it might not happen? Why only give a cryptic warning to his other timeline self? (And, seriously, he hides it well, but that “alternate me” shit will never not be weird to him). If he’s an abstruse motherfucker, it’s only because he’s toward the bottom of a chain of command that is, in fact, fucking abstruse.

Most of all, he doesn’t get why it was so damn important that Quentin get his Metrocard right now. Theoretically, that’s the goal for everyone down here—sooner or later. Theoretically, it means you have no unfinished business and are ready to move on.

Theoretically.

It’s possible that Quentin was truly ready to move forward. He didn’t try to argue or plead, like some of them do. Maybe a hug and some reassurances really were all he needed. And in a fucked up way, he did get what he wanted: a secret door. New adventures. Embrace the mystery. No, seriously: embrace the mystery, because beyond what’s in the basic brochure, I have no fucking idea what’s out there, either. Couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. Yeah. Some books are still off limits. Or non-existent, except he doesn’t believe _that_ for one second. If any of his colleagues know more, though, they’re not talking. More secrets. 

Anyway. It’s done. Even if he could have argued with his superiors that Quentin might need more time to process down here, he’s not sure what the rationale would be, really. He doesn’t have “his people” down here. His dad—Penny checked—already moved on. Everyone else important was sitting around that bonfire.

And himself. But he’s working. Busy. It’d have been lonely, and that kid’s had enough loneliness already. 

He made the afterlife sound real sweet, he has to give it to himself. Everyone you’re worried about will be just fine once they get down here. You’ll be fine, too. All the bullshit drops away, you become your authentic, best self. Learn and grow. Again: witness my example. And it’s true, he has changed. A lot. For the better, he’d say. That part’s real.

But seriously, man? You listen to him long enough, you might think: if death’s so great, and life sucks so bad, why should anyone try to stay alive? He was steeling himself for Quentin to drop that on him, but he never asked. Too stunned, maybe. Or maybe Penny’s just that convincing. To Penny Adiyodi: also a damn fine salesman to the dead. Your final destination is a time share in Florida. Act quickly before this special offer ends. 

He sucks his teeth and laughs at the ceiling. 

The reason he sells that pitch so well is because he bought it himself. Hades knew just how to work him. Like, it’s up to you, man, but down here, you’ve got a future. A long, long one. Unlimited opportunities. Down here, you’ll be appreciated. Down here, you can forget about who hurt you and who you miss. Look at my face. Look at my suit. This could be you. 

(Fogg gave him a similar spiel, minus the “you’re on immortal time now” part. Fogg’s only human, though. Didn’t pretend too hard not to be self-interested, down the line). 

But: forget human magic. Forget your friends. Forget the “little people.” Isn’t that the same shit that Iris bitch told Julia? Why would he think a god, any god, has his best interests at heart? Why does he keep falling for this “I’m your friend, I’ll be your daddy” shit? 

Answer: he’s still a dumbass. Dumbass to the end. Just like Quentin, his brother in hopeful dumbassery. Wanting to believe these people—higher powers, whatever—actually know something. That they aren’t just making it up as they go along. That he’s got a “destiny.” That he’s finally found a home. 

He doesn’t want to forget his friends.

He never wanted to be a company man. 

A warden.

He raps his knuckles on the desk. Sighs. Call it a night, maybe. Plenty more time to think about this. Nine hundred ninety-nine million, nine-ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-eight years. And a half. 

Maybe Quentin’s going to a place where he’ll finally be happy. A place he can call home. He hopes so.

Maybe someday, he’ll find that place, too.


End file.
